An Unwilling Visitor
by ThisMightEndBadly
Summary: Earth was his home planet. There was no getting around that, no matter how hard he tried. But visiting the place? No. Never. Not unless he was dragged there kicking and screaming.


**An Unwilling Visitor**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Guardians of the Galaxy, or any of the characters, locations, or ideas within it. I make no profit from the story, and the only thing I own is the plot of this particular story.

* * *

><p>The question wasn't so much whether or not Peter Quill missed Earth, but rather whether or not Peter Quill liked travelling in space. The answer was, of course, hell yes. He'd grown up on Earth, and the time there would never be erased; it was, after all, the place where the Mother he loved so dearly had spent her days. But he had lost so much there. He could never visit his home without being painfully reminded of his Mother's death, of the family he had left behind, of the life of safety he'd been dragged away from. It was like inviting someone to stab you in the chest, drawing a cross right over your heart, and giving them a lesson on the correct technique. He would never go back.<p>

That's what he always told himself, every time. Earth was out of bounds, Earth had to be out of bounds. It was the only option which made any sense at all. And anyway, he had the entire fucking galacy to fly around, he could miss out just the one planet with no significant effect on anything at all.

And that was that. No arguements, no questions, nothing. It was set in stone, preserved for his entire life.

But things had changed, almost beyond any comprehension. His ship wasn't just his to roam around, and bring countless soon to be forgotten girls back to. Four other... living things (it was probably the only term he coukd apply to all of them) lived on the ship now, and had to have avote in everything now. Maybe he didn't want to go to Earth, but if they did? There would be no stopping them, they would tie him up and fly there with him kickning and screaming in the back.

And that was how he ended up standing in the doorway of his ship, staring at green grass and blue sky rolling out in front of him. Gamora and Rocket were already devising a plan, Drax wandering around, Groot swaying in the breeze. But he couldn't move, couldn't force his feet to make a single step. Years had been spent swearing on the fact that he would avoid this place. It was one of the few constants in his life. He may as well have relied on the fact that pigs could fly.

Maybe all the space travelling had finally started to wear his sanity away. He wouldn't be surprised at this point.

* * *

><p>Staring at the stars, unblinking and unchanging and unrelenting, used to be depressing as hell when he first left Earth. The entire universe, and none of it cared one bit about him. But now... Now, it just seemed beautiful. The stars shining in the sky would most likely outlast him, but why should he care? Being depressed about things you didn't understand was something he was very firmly against.<p>

The trip to Earth had affected him more than he cared to admit. And not even in the famaliar 'going to break down into tears at the slightest mention of the thing' kind of way, or the even more familiar 'I'm going to take out my anger about this on the nearest antique vase' kind of way. It was almost as his mind was dredging up every last strand of memory related to Earth, yet he was numb to it all. But the roll continued, undetered by his emotions. Sleep was impossible. Reason was impossible. Everything was fucking impossible except sitting and staring idly into space, hoping that the stream of memories would cease.

So he sat and he stared. That was all that he planned on doing until there was some kind of explosion, or other near fatal evemt. Nothing to distract you like the threat of immenent death.

This wasn't the first time he'd been thrown back into a stream of memories. No, there had been countless nights when he'd been struck by what could have been, the ordinary life he had imagined for himself compared to his real life. But it was more than that. Before, he listened to his music and waited, simply thinking. He'd known it would pass before morning. Now now. Not anymore.

And it was hell.

And he couldn't just sit like a statue and watch time tick by while he was static. He had to do something, do anything to work through the images burning through his brain.

* * *

><p>He was Star-Lord. He was fucking Star-Lord. And he couldn't think of a single word to say. Sorry? I love you? I miss you? No. He turned away in a rage, flinging the bunch of flowers clasped in his fingers behind him and storming away into the nearby trees.<p>

He had never visited his mother's grave before. He had been taken away before it was built, and had experienced no desire to see it since. He had always imagined that when he would visit it, words would come pouring from his heart, saying everything he had ever thought in regards to his mother. No. Instead, he had stood there, mouth open but no words coming out.

He didn't know why he'd expected anything else to happen. He'd abandoned his life on Earth, his family and friends and home and school and prospects and _everything_. He couldn't just flick a switch and become a poet, perfectly adjusted to the planet he'd left behind.

So he walked, and he ran, and he stumbled, and eventually, he collapsed in a heap, desperately gasping for air. Glancing up, he recognised nothing around him. He was lost. How fun.

Heaving himself up, he threw himself towards a nearby tree, propping his body up against it while he surveyed the area. Nothing, just as he'd suspected. He would have to go back; he had to honour his mother, just one time at least, Reluctantly, he headed back in the general direction of the grave. He knew he wouldn't get any words out. No way. But he had to try.

And he did try, he honestly did. But nothing would come out. Not a sound.

So he just headed back. He knew the others were waiting for him, expecting him to spend his time pouring his heart out. Instead he spent his time staring at the engraved words and hoping against hope something would bubble out.

The second he stepped out the cemtry, a speech began to form in his head. the speech he couldn't find. The words he had been searching for. But he wasn't by his grave, and he couldn't go back there. He'd break down, the words fracturing like broken glass.

Instead, he veered into the trees near him, finding a good, strong one, Drawing out a knife, he drove it into the roots, making sure it was sturdy. Standing up, he looked down at the dagger and opened his mouth.

"Mom, I miss you. I always missed you. It won't go away, I know that. When I left I used to cry every night. The crew thought I was weak, that I was a wimply little bastard who would never amount to anything. I thought they were right for a while. But I couldn't let them win. They'd taken my life from me, I couldn't let them take my spirit as well. Know that I never stopped thinking of you though. I just didn't let the thoughts make me weak. I let them make me strong. You didn't give up when you were dying. I wasn't going to give up either. I love you, Mom. I love you."

And with that, he turned away and walked back to the ship, not turning back this time. He had done what he needed to. He had said the words that were always in his heart and brain, but which never flowed from his mouth. His Mother was remembered.

He was happy. And that was all that mattered.


End file.
